


Han Solo and the cantina of doom

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:41:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han Solo may not know a lot about art, but he knows what he likes.  And what he doesn't like is seeing his estranged son giving lap dances to a general of the First Order, for kriff's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Han Solo and the cantina of doom

**Author's Note:**

> 1) For [the tfa kink meme](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/2821.html?thread=4134149#cmt4134149);  
> 2) Takes place in a canon divergence AU where Han and Kylo Ren don’t meet on Starkiller Base (obviously);  
> 3) Darth Bathrobe is a Dresden Files joke, and Harry Dresden should be honored that Han is using it;  
> 4) I may have considered titling this Raiders of the lost jock;  
> 5) I am never ever ever ever going to get tired of writing about how much Han and Hux hate each other. :D

Han remembered thinking, _I got this,_ when the doctor had told him and Leia it was going to be a boy. He could teach the kid to fly ships and cheat at cards. He could beat the crap out of any dad whose kid tried to hurt his son. And when his son was older, Han could fix up crashed speeders, help him through his first hangover, slip condoms into the kid’s wallet so he didn’t end up a teenaged father or with an embarrassing case of genital warts. 

At no point did he consider that Ben’s problems would include being brainwashed by a creepy old Sith into killing his peers and joining the First Order. Or being sold into slavery to some third-rate Hutt on the outskirts of the galaxy by Darth Bathrobe as some sort of punishment for the destruction of Starkiller Base. Or that the first time he would see his son as an adult, his son would be dressed in something like the bottom half of that metal bikini Leia had worn at Jabba’s palace, and long black hair, and nothing else. 

Resistance intelligence had left that out of their report. Han couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that way. If he’d known about it in advance, instead of getting slapped in the face with it two seconds after walking into the smoky cantina, he might have been able to prepare himself for it.

He doubted it.

Across the room Ben frowned, and Han pulled the hood of his cloak further down over his face. He would approach Fanna about buying back his son later, when the place had mostly emptied out and when the urge to shoot the Hutt was a little less overwhelming, or maybe when there would be fewer witnesses to it. Ben had been enslaved here for most of a standard year. 

He swallowed down his rage, took a corner table from which he could see his son, and drained the first drink Chewie brought him in one go.

Chewie offered a soft moan of commiseration. 

"Don’t, you’re making me feel like a jerk for how I reacted when Lumpy quit his job to fulfill his dreams as a painter."

Chewie barked.

"He dipped himself in paint and hurled himself at the canvas. I don’t know much about art, but—" There was a commotion at the entrance of the cantina. A man in obvious uniform was striding across the floor, and even though this moon was a lawless hellhole, and even though the uniform looked less like constabulary and more like military, some of the patrons still reacted by shoving hookahs and pouches and powders under tables or trying to block the sight of the dice games they were playing with their bodies. The band slowed and stopped. Ben had gone from uncomfortably lounging at Fanna’s tail to sitting up, straight and tense, and if he’d been frowning earlier it had deepened into an outright scowl.

The newcomer didn’t spare any of them a glance. Instead, he walked straight to Fanna the Hutt. "You have illegally acquired First Order property," he said stiffly. "I am here to retrieve it."

Ben shot to his feet. "You dare—"

Fanna yanked the chain back. Ben stumbled, and Han slid his blaster out of its holster. "I have all the necessary documents," he said, leering down at the newcomer. "Besides, I doubt the First Order had anything to do with this one."

"You will surrender him to me or—"

"General," said Fanna, with a burbling laugh, "if you want it that badly, I would be pleased to have the slave give you a demonstration."

"He dances?"

Fanna laughed again. "In a fashion. Take a seat, you’ll see." And the general, who seemed incredulous and curious despite himself, did, dragging a chair out and turning it around. Han could see his face now, in profile, and the angry ginger weasel looked vaguely familiar. "Go on, slave. And what happened to the music?"

Ben’s fists clenched and he shot the general a glare that could have melted durasteel, a glare Han was more than familiar with, a glare he’d never thought would make his heart hurt. "Idiot," he murmured, as the band resumed.

"I’m the idiot, Ren? Really—" He was the idiot, because his retort died in his throat as Ben sat on his lap. The First Order must have had the most boring bars in the galaxy, Han thought, and then Ben started _moving_.

Han felt sick.

Chewie pushed his drink at Han, and Han drank it numbly. The general still looked more shocked than anything else, and when he moved his hands—"Just try it, dweeb," Han muttered under his breath—Ben had anticipated that, and pinned them down to the table behind them, a look of furious concentration on his face. 

There was another exchange, too quiet under the music, but Han could see Ben cut the general off, was fairly sure the words he hissed out were, "This is _your fault_." He decided to look away, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid seeing this jerk jerk upwards in his seat.

Luckily, a fight broke out in the other end of the cantina between the band’s percussionist and an alien of a species Han didn’t even recognize. The percussionist put the alien’s head—Han was fairly sure it was its head—through a drum, and the alien’s friends started to swarm the band, and as much as Han felt compelled to watch it he realized that it was also a great distraction. "Let’s grab him and leave," he told Chewie. Leia had given him a lot of credits to buy Ben back, but it felt righter to steal him away while the whole of the cantina was busy with the brawl.

Well. Not the whole of the cantina.

Han would have thought that when the music stopped, the lap dance would have stopped too. Instead, Ben must have released General Ginger’s hands because the little shit had one cupped behind Ben’s knee and another at Ben’s waist as Ben ground away, head thrown back and eyes shut. Han tried to slap a hand over his own eyes, but the blaster was in it, and that gave him a much better idea.

They were kissing by the time Han got there. He readied the blaster, glanced back to make Chewie had the hypo ready, and said, "If this is your idea of a free sample, kid, I’m glad you never took up smuggling."

Before the sentence was over, Ben was on the floor and the general stood between him and Han. He’d had just enough time to get his blaster out before he realized that Han’s was pointed right between his eyes. 

"Hand it over," he said. 

"Or what?" said the dweeb, sneering valiantly.

"I shoot you where they don’t make mechanical replacements," said Han, and immediately wished he hadn’t, because he had to look at the other place that applied to, and that was definitely an erection tenting those First Order uniform trousers. "There, too. I don’t want that touching my son ever again."

"Your son?" That seemed to work more than the threat of getting shot in the dick, or maybe the general was just handing over his blaster so he could round on Ben, who was slowly getting to his feet. 

"That boy is dead," Ben muttered, more to the floor than anything else. He’d shaken his hair forward until it mostly covered his face, but what was visible was red and his torso was flushed. With embarrassment, obviously, because there was no evidence of arousal under the bikini, thank the Force. 

"After having seen what I’ve seen tonight, I kind of wish I was, too," said Han. 

Ben looked straight at him. "Good! You shouldn’t have _been_ here, you shouldn’t think—" He took a step forward and shook off the general when he tried to hold him back, and the chain around his throat broke into three or four pieces. "It’s too late for you to start trying _now_ —"

Chewie shoved the hypo into Ben’s neck. Han watched his son’s eyelids flutter and his knees fold and wished the wookie could have done that a few seconds sooner.

General Ginger sighed, and turned to Chewbacca. "Are you planning on carrying him?"

Chewbacca answered by baring his teeth and slinging Ben over one shoulder.

"Then let’s leave."

"Whoa whoa whoa," said Han, "who asked—"

General Ginger raised an eyebrow. "Before Fanna emerges from Ren’s mind-trick and the rest of the cantina realizes that it is not particularly interested in that altercation and starts to wonder why it was."

Han gaped at him, but Chewbacca was already on his way out, and the little weasel had a point.

The little weasel also slipped away once they were out the door. Han regretted not keeping a blaster trained on him. He also regretted not shooting him in the dick when he had the chance, especially when it turned out that Chewie had recognized him.

"Okay," he said, making sure Ben was strapped into the bunk, and tucking some of that excess of hair behind an excess of ear—it turned out he never had grown into them. "Maybe we should have brought him back with us and put him on trial for war crimes."

It was amazing how much sarcasm Shyriiwook could pack into one huff.

"But that would mean him being here, on this ship, with Ben. And if I have my way, this is the last time that little punk is ever going to be in the same corner of the galaxy as Ben." That was another thing he hadn’t really been expecting, as the father of a son: to disapprove of who his kid was swapping spit with. He’d probably have gotten around to it when Ben started dating men, but even so, there was not good enough for your kid and then there was the man who’d destroyed the entire Hosnian system.

"Space herpes," he muttered as he sat in the pilot’s chair and Chewie started to punch in the coordinates for home. "Why couldn’t it have been space herpes?"


End file.
